Never Go To Bed Angry
by TheRebelFlesh
Summary: One-shot for Lia Walker, established Johnlock. John and Sherlock fight constantly, but when John loses his temper and calls Sherlock a rather nasty name, Sherlock is utterly shattered. Later that night, John nearly loses Sherlock for good, and learns how much he truly loves him. Rated T for swearing


**Prompt fic for Lia Walker :) Rated T for swearing**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The betting pools at the Scotland Yard had ended. It was official, John and Sherlock were together. The truth had come out when Lestrade had rather awkwardly barged into 221B, not aware of their...change in living arrangements. It hadn't been anything major, just a little kissing, but Lestrade had turned a brilliant shade of scarlet and stammered his apologizes. John had been absolutely mortified, but Sherlock remained calm as ever. The rest of Scotland Yard found out later that very day, when John made a rather insightful deduction and Sherlock promptly kissed him full on the mouth. Donovan and Anderson had been completely dumbstruck, and Lestrade had smiled smugly as he held his hand out for payment. The duo shoved wads of notes in his hand, gave John and Sherlock strange looks, and walked away whispering each other. John took in the scene, shaking his head and smiling while Sherlock leaned in for another kiss...

* * *

Six months later and their relationship was as strong as ever. They still fought constantly, but it was always about trivial things, like the lack of milk in the fridge or Sherlock's incessant violin playing at three in the morning. Nothing major, nothing that wasn't resolved by the time they went to bed. Never go to bed angry, it may be a cliche, but it worked well for them. This particular fight was the worst though. They'd been working on a case, and Sherlock had acted completely inappropriate. The Yarders, including Lestrade, had always been rather wary of letting Sherlock talk to witnesses and family members. They always expected him to ask insensitive questions or to be cold and cruel to people who had just been through a trauma. But John had always defended Sherlock, he'd seen the man be truly kind to people. He could be compassionate if he wanted to, people usually just didn't give him a reason. But this...this was bad. To make matters worse, they had started the day out fighting about Sherlock never doing the shopping, and had been in the middle of another one of their famous shouting rows when Lestrade had texted Sherlock about a new case. Sherlock had immediately dashed out the house without even waiting for John. John was just barely able to catch the cab Sherlock was in before it drove off. It was a pretty difficult case for them all, cases that involved children always were. A little boy, no more than five, had found his mother in the kitchen with her head bashed in. The Yard suspected it to be a burglary gone wrong. Sherlock had inspected the crime scene, scrutinized every detail like always. But before explaining what had happened, Sherlock demanded to speak to the woman's husband. The husband hadn't even been in the house at the time, so he wasn't a suspect, but Sherlock was insistent. Lestrade had resolved long ago never to doubt Sherlock, so he allowed him to interview the man on one condition: no insensitive questions. Sherlock agreed to the terms quickly, and strode across the house's lawn to the ambulance. Once there, he regarded the small child with a strangely knowing look, and promptly punched the father square in the face. John heard the medics shout angrily, and he ran across the lawn to secure Sherlock.

After finally wrestling Sherlock into a cab, John made quick apologies to Lestrade and the man with a purplish bruise blooming on his cheek. He was mortified, absolutely mortified. He shot angry glances at a sniggering Donovan and Anderson before hopping into the cab. The ride back to Baker Street passed in an tense silence. Sherlock drummed his finger annoyingly on the seats, and John kept shooting him angry and annoyed looks. When they arrived back home, Sherlock immediately exited the cab without a word. John dug to find his wallet in his jacket, and paid the cabbie, having only just enough. He opened the door to 221B angrily, only to find Sherlock lying apathetically on the sofa, staring blankly at the celling. He rolled his eyes before heading to the kitchen, hoping food would have magically materialized in the fridge while they were out.

"We're out of food again...," John shouted to Sherlock, and getting no response.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to do the shopping sometimes...," John mumbled under his breath, hoping Sherlock wouldn't hear him.

"BORING," Sherlock shouted.

John gripped the door handle tightly before slamming it shut. He couldn't do this anymore, couldn't let the anger go this time. He had to do something...

He stormed into the sitting room angrily, and, pointing a shaking finger at Sherlock, shouted, "You know what? You can do the bloody shopping this time. I'm not doing it again, you live here, you're bloody well capable of doing the shopping too! God, what the bloody hell is with you today? First you nearly leave for a case without me, then you go and fucking punch someone for no goddamn reason! He'd just lost his wife for God's sake, his son was fucking traumatized! What the fuck is wrong with you? You see, this is why the Yarders never let you talk to anyone! You do shit like this! This is why the call you a freak, Sherlock. Because you bloody fucking are one!"

The words tumbled from his lips before he could even stop them. There was no taking the words back now. He'd called Sherlock a freak. He was about to stutter his apologies when Sherlock jumped up from the couch and grabbed his coat. He left the flat without a word, without even a glance at John. John just stood there, stunned silent, as he listened to Sherlock's thudding, hurried steps. He heard a door slam in the distance, and with that, he sank into the couch with his head in his hands. God, he'd screwed up. Screwed up worse than ever before. He'd just become the sort of person he had never wanted to become. Sherlock had been called a freak his entire life, and even though it seemed to roll right off him, it affected him more than people expected. John knew this, he'd seen Sherlock shed tears over it. He had seen the broken, shattered man behind the cold mask, and now John had become one of the people that made him shatter. Sherlock wasn't really a sociopath, no. He just didn't have a reason to like people, they never gave him a reason. Not until John. He'd opened up to John, bared his soul to him. And how did John repay him? God, he screwed up big time...

* * *

Hours later, Sherlock cursed himself for not grabbing his coat before leaving the flat. Night had fallen, and it was freezing outside. He was curled up on a park bench now, but he'd spent the earlier portion of the day wandering aimlessly around London. He had some cash in his pocket, thankfully, and had used it to buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He'd quit for John, but screw John now. He need to calm down, and nicotine was the only thing that could help. There were...other options, but he couldn't bring himself to consider those. It far to long since he'd needed to resort to that extreme. But he'd finished all his cigarettes, and he didn't have any cash left. He really didn't want to go back to the flat though. But it was far too cold outside to sleep rough, something he'd gotten used to during his days as a pathetic drug addict. He had even considered texting Lestrade and asking to kip on his sofa, but thought he was probably still angry about what had happened at the crime scene today. Finally, sighing and hugging his arms tighter around his body in a futile attempt to keep warm, he decided he had no other option. He had to go back to the flat. He really didn't want to face John. He checked the time on his phone, and seeing it was around eleven, decided he wouldn't have to. John would be asleep by now, so he'd probably be okay. He made his way back to Baker Street, shivering madly, hoping John hadn't decided to wait up for him, attempting to apologize...

He opened the door the their flat quietly, hoping not to wake John. He sighed in relief when he realized John wasn't in the sitting room or kitchen. Good, he was sleeping. Sherlock sank gratefully into the couch, pulling a blanket over himself to warm up. He felt his eyelids droop, and yawned. He curled up on the couch, and fell asleep.

He woke up to the sound of screaming. Utter, raw, horrifying screaming that was coming from his and John's bedroom. Snapping to attention, he crept down the hallway, and listened outside the door. He still heard screaming. He turned the knob carefully, and sprung into the room. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room quickly, and he saw John thrashing wildly on the bed, sheets twisted around his body. John whimpered, tossing and turning the whole time. God, he hated it when John had nightmares about the war. He never knew what to do, and he never liked seeing John in this state. John was always the strong one, the one who held Sherlock tightly as he sobbed into his lover's shoulder when all the emotions bottled up inside became too much and burst forth, the one who made sure Sherlock knew he wasn't a freak not matter what anyone said. Nightmares like this one didn't come around often, but when they did, they were awful. Sherlock would try to wake John up in any way he could, try to soothe him with songs he'd composed on the violin. Now, Sherlock crept quietly to his lover's side, and placed a hand on John's shoulder. Wrong move. Suddenly, John was on top of him, face a mask of pain and fear, and his eyes shut tightly and teeth clenched. Before Sherlock could even react, John's hands had found their way blindly to his throat. Gasping for air, Sherlock tried in vain to pry John's fingers off him, but John's grip was too strong. He kicked and thrashed wildly, trying to twist out from under John. It was no use. He could already feel his limbs grow heavier with each chocked breath. John's fingers just dug deeper and deeper into Sherlock's throat, cutting off his oxygen completely. With his last ounce of strength, he aimed a final kick at John before losing consciousness...

* * *

John was woken up by a sharp pain in a rather...sensitive part of his anatomy. He doubled over in pain and fumbled for the light switch to the bedside lamp. Rubbing his eyes at the sudden light, he scanned the room until...oh God. He sank down to the floor, and turned Sherlock over gingerly. His love's neck was marred by purple, finger-shaped bruises and angry red scratch marks, and his head lolled uselessly to the side. John looked down at his own hands...there was blood under his fingernails. Oh God, he'd done this. He trembled violently as he leaned in to listen for Sherlock's breathing. Nothing. Oh God, this wasn't happening. Remembering his medical training, he began CPR, thinking of nothing but chest compressions and mouth to mouth. Nothing but blowing air into his love's lungs, hoping desperately for results. He continued, panicking when he efforts seemed to be futile, until Sherlock regained consciousness suddenly, gasping for air.

Bloodshot eyes wide with fear, back arched off the ground, Sherlock managed to gasp out, "No...hospital...," between shuddering, raspy breaths.

"Jesus Sherlock! You need...," John began before being cut of by Sherlock shaking his head.

He couldn't force Sherlock to the hospital, he'd learned that lesson long ago. And honestly, he knew what this looked like. He'd strangled Sherlock, nearly killing him, and the hospital would think this was a domestic violence case. They fought often enough to be likely candidates for abuse, anyone could tell the police that. Donovan and Anderson would be more than happy to see John serve time for this. The hospital wouldn't understand what had really happened, no matter what Sherlock told them, they'd just assume he was in denial or terrified that John would hurt him again. So going to the hospital wasn't an option. He could treat Sherlock here, just as long as there wasn't too much damage. Shaking his head, John lifted Sherlock up easily and placed him on the bed.

"Don't move. Don't talk. I'll be right back...," he said to Sherlock, getting a weak nod in return.

He returned to Sherlock's side with his med kit in hand. Sherlock winced noticeably when John reached out, hands trembling, to lift his love's chin gently and inspect the bruises and scratches. His eyes welled with tears as he saw how much damage he'd done. The bruises contrasted starkly against his pale skin, and John would see where the small blood vessels of Sherlock's face had broken from the force of his struggle. John made sure that none of the small bones in his neck were broken and that the cartilage wasn't damaged either. After finding nothing wrong, he cleaned the cuts gently, and bandaged up the worst ones. When he finally finished, he pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and collapsed in it. Face in his hands, John felt tears prickle behind his eyes, and felt them spill over. His shoulders shook with each heavy sob. The force of what had just happened had finally hit him. He'd almost killed Sherlock, the one person in this entire world that he loved more than anything. What if he hadn't stopped? What if his last words to Sherlock had been calling him a freak? What if today had been their last day together? What if their last interaction had been a fight? John felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Sherlock mouthing the beginnings of an apology.

"God Sherlock, don't even think about fucking apologizing! This is entirely my fault...I don't even know what I would do if I lost you...," John gasped out between sobs.

He felt Sherlock's long arms wrap around him, and hugged him tightly. John planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead, knowing that he would make things right in any way he could.

* * *

Sherlock was never able to forget the terrible things John had said to him. He could never forget being called a freak by the person he loved most in this world. John never forgot the bruises or the way Sherlock flinched when John got too close. He never forgot the shattered look on Sherlock's face when he called him a freak. He would never forget the resulting visit from Mycroft, or the furious look on his face when threatened that if John ever touched his brother in that way again he would never see the light of day. But the bruises faded gradually. Sherlock stopped flinching, and Mycroft understood that it had been a one time incident. Sherlock closed the case with Lestrade, it turns out it had been the husband all along. He'd been abusing both his son and wife, and had killed her during one of their fights. Sherlock punched the man because he knew how the little boy felt, he knew what it feels like to be abused. That made John feel even worse, knowing that what had begun their fight, what had made John call Sherlock a freak, came from such a place of pain. But eventually they forgave, even if they could never forget.

* * *

**Well I hope you all enjoyed that! Special thanks to Lia Walker for the prompt. Feel free to PM me with any prompts or story ideas!**


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